Higher Heritage--Outtake
by chappysmom
Summary: A one-shot look at what might have happened when, in Reichenbach, the Chief Superintendent shows up at 221B with Donovan only to meet, not plain, ordinary (ha!) John Watson, but rather Lord John Hamish Watson Brandon, Earl of Undershaw … who is NOT amused.


Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

This is an outtake from my "Heritage" series. I've said that I had no plans for moving this series FORWARD to explore, say, Reichenbach with all these multi-verse permutations. Because, you know, once you do that with one, you need to do it with all of them, and I don't think my heart could take that much time with the Fall. Besides, I'm having far too much fun exploring all these different variations.

But, still … someone put this bug in my head, and the image was so tempting, so delicious … I couldn't let it go.

So, here—a one-shot look at what might have happened when, in Reichenbach, the Chief Superintendent shows up at 221B with Donovan only to meet, not plain, ordinary (ha!) John Watson, but rather Lord John Hamish Watson Brandon, Earl of Undershaw … who is NOT amused.

* * *

#####

Sherlock couldn't have even been down the stairs before Donovan was there, saying "I told you so" and essentially thumbing her nose at John's distress. He knew his friend was innocent and was sure they'd get past this totally absurd charge, but … really? Sgt Donovan was so self-involved and so self-righteous she was really gloating that she'd warned him this would happen? Right now?

She was lucky that John was feeling just a little lost at the moment, and not exactly eager to get into this with her. Not right now. He was too busy thinking about the things he needed to do, wondering if he should call Mycroft, if Sherlock had a lawyer, if his own lawyer knew much about criminal law.

He was too busy trying not to let his temper get the better of him, because, really, this entire thing was a farce. Arresting Sherlock? For kidnapping? There was no way. Say what you would about his social skills (and John could say a lot), but this would not be the kind of crime Sherlock would commit. Not that John was sure what kind that would be, if his friend were so inclined. Something absurdly clever and detailed, but without all this messy human detail to get in the way.

Sherlock would never have done this. John was, as he'd just told Sherlock, 100% certain of that. He just needed to figure out his best next course of action.

But then in walked a loud, bombastic man in a bad suit.

John was used to a wide variety of characters coming through his home these days, but few of them entered with such a sneer. "Was that him?" the man asked, his voice as loud and coarse as his accent as Donovan all but genuflected as she confirmed it.

John was just thinking that, if this man was Donovan's superior, it explained a lot about Sherlock's poor opinion about the quality of Scotland Yard, when the man pronounced, "A bit of a weirdo."

Weirdo? Sherlock Holmes might be many things—and eccentric would certainly make the list—but … _weirdo?_ The man spent hours of his own time helping the police at their own request, and he'd just been marched out like a criminal because of Moriarty's new, even more deadly game. And this … officer … had the gall to walk into his home, John and Sherlock's home, and _insult_ him?

The fact that it sounded like he was using 50-year old slang for a hippie just made it sting that much more.

And then, as John stared at him with disbelief, the man drawled out, "What do you think you're looking at? Who are you?"

Oh, John was almost grateful. This was really just what he needed. He straightened his shoulders and said, "The Earl of Undershaw."

The sneer just grew broader as the man drew himself up (or tried, seeing he was almost as broad as tall) and said, "Oh, really? And I'm the King of the Gypsies."

Back by the door, John could see Donovan looking suddenly appalled as she apparently saw what was about to happen. John, though, just folded his arms casually across his chest as he said, "That would explain the manners."

"What did you just say to me?" the man asked, taking a step toward John. He was obviously trying to look intimidating, but John had faced drill sergeants, army officers, Mycroft Holmes, and James Moriarty—not to mention his grandfather in a towering rage after John had gotten into his wine cellar when he was seven.

There was no way this man could intimidate him.

The misplaced bombast, though, just helped settle John's nerves all the more. (Sometimes he really did miss the war zone.) This confrontation really was just what he needed.

"I said that if you are in fact the King of the Gypsies, it would explain your manners. Have you never learned how to behave when you enter someone's home?"

"You live here?" the officer said. "Maybe I should be arresting you, too. What's your name? And no jokes this time."

Sally lifted a feeble hand as she tried to interject, "Er, sir?"

John just ignored her and concentrated on standing firm with all the authority his rank, profession, and generations of nobility could give him. "I told you, I'm the Earl of Undershaw."

"Donovan," the man snapped, not turning his head as he pinned John with a beady stare. "Arrest him. Obstruction of justice, should work, for starters."

John just _grinned_ now to the other man's disbelief as he reached into his pocket.

John didn't bother to hide his further amusement as the other man started, eyes suddenly wide, as if expecting him to pull out a weapon. Instead, John calmly opened his wallet. "My name," he said slowly, polishing off his seldom-used public school accent, enunciating every word, every syllable, as arrogantly as possible. (Sherlock would be so proud, he thought.) "Is Lord John Hamish Watson Brandon, Earl of Undershaw."

He handed over his ID. "I'm surprised you missed it. It made all the headlines when my father and grandfather were killed in a car accident last year." He nodded to the wall, where Sherlock had framed the front page of the Sun, blaring _Hatman's Robin is an Earl!_

"You're an Earl … and you live _here_?"

"Indeed," John said as he smiled as politely and fiercely as he could as he reached over and plucked his ID back from the unresisting fingers of the man in front of him. "Now, as to your calling my flatmate and good friend a weirdo. I can't help but wonder why you didn't say so when he appeared at a press conference at the Yard—just up the hall from your office, I believe—a month ago? When he helped solve the missing banker case? I could have sworn I saw you in the hall, watching the proceedings. Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson and the others gifted Sherlock a lovely deerstalker hat in thanks for his help. It was quite amusing and very obviously his help in solving crimes for you was not something any of us were trying to keep secret. Since the press corps was right there. And you. In New Scotland Yard. Up the hall from your office."

"That was … but, no, Donovan said that…"

John tried not to show his delight at the fast back-pedaling the man was doing now, bluster gone. "I wouldn't dream of telling you how to do your job, of course, but you might want to examine the facts before jumping to conclusions. Sgt Donovan has had an acrimonious relationship with Sherlock since before I met her, though I'm not denying he gives as good as he gets, verbally. And in this case, of course, he's been working all hours analysing soil samples, trying to find those poor children, so he might have been over-tired and said something untoward. It's true, his manners aren't always the best. His brother at the Home Office is often appalled."

Not that he knew what department Mycroft technically worked for, but if he needed to name-drop to out-face this blustering idiot of a man, he would. He just wondered if he could work in the visit to Buckingham Palace?

Meanwhile, John walked over to the door, taking his jacket off its peg and shrugging it on calmly and deliberately as if it cost as much as Sherlock's Belstaff. "Naturally, the chain of evidence requires you to be meticulous in the pursuit of your duties, and of course you need to explore every possibility—even that Sherlock Holmes was somehow involved. I'm a doctor, you know, and I know how vital a solid paper trail can be during the diagnostic process."

Chin high and confident, he moved toward the door and just lifted an eyebrow, waiting, until Donovan stepped aside, looking as stunned as her boss. John nodded his thanks. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just check in with Sherlock before he gets taken away, and then I'll be calling my solicitor. It's a bit late to get him out of bed, but Mr Barrington seemed to develop a fondness for Sherlock last year. Do you know him? Gregory Barrington? He doesn't usually deal in criminal law, but his reputation is excellent. He consults for the palace from time to time, as does Sherlock … but I really shouldn't talk about that, as it's probably above your pay grade."

"The palace?"

It was all John could do not to chortle at the flummoxed expressions as he waved that off. "At any rate, I'm sure Mr Barrington can recommend someone if he needs to, or I could always ask Sherlock's brother. After all, the Holmes family goes back almost as far as the Brandons—though it's been a few generations since they held a title. That would change, of course, if Sherlock ever stops turning down knighthoods."

"Turning down…"

"He claims the notoriety hurts his ability to do his job, but, well, that's for another time. Heaven only knows how he'll feel about a criminal record." John looked back with the polite, friendly smile he'd learned at his grandfather's knee decades before. "Lock up for me, would you, when you're done, Donovan? I hate to upset our landlady any more than is necessary."

And, polite but aristocratic to the very ends of his fingertips, John walked out the door in complete control of everything but the corners of his mouth. God, that had been _fun_.

Stepping out on the pavement, he paused by Lestrade to say, "I don't think much of your boss."

Lestrade was too professional to say what he thought in response to that, but his eyes gleamed as he looked at John, eyes pausing as if seeing him the first time. "He's still in one piece, I hope?"

Now John did allow a small smile as he nodded. "He and Donovan both. He seemed a little surprised when I introduced myself, though."

Lestrade professed to be surprised. "Did she neglect to mention Sherlock's flatmate was an Earl? How careless of her."

"Luckily I had proper identification with me, which I pulled out right after he told me he was King of the Gypsies."

"He didn't," Lestrade said, trying to smother a laugh. "The things you learn … anyway, Himself is over by the car."

"Thanks, Greg," John said with a nod as he crossed to the waiting car where Sherlock was watching, surreptitiously slipping something metallic from his pocket. His friend looked—not like he was enjoying himself, exactly, but like things were looking up.

"Don't tell me I missed it," Sherlock said, voice leaning toward disappointment.

"Me pulling rank?" John asked, lips twitching, "Sorry. I know how you enjoy it, but I couldn't help myself. He called you a _weirdo_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I've been called worse."

"That I believe," said John with a laugh, pulling out his phone.

"Barrington?"

"He'll eviscerate them," John said with relish as he sent his text, "Arresting you on such flimsy pretence, even with Moriarty involved? You'll be out in no time."

Sherlock nodded. "Unfortunately, I don't really have time to wait."

"You … what?"

"I'm referring to my imminent and daring escape," Sherlock said, eyes alight.

John had just enough time to wonder what he meant, and then Sherlock's hands were free and he had blasted an audio backlash through everyone's earpieces, and grabbed a gun—and John.

John thought the look on the Chief Superintendent's face really was priceless as Sherlock declared him a hostage and backed away down the street, and everything exploded into chaos.

No, thought John, he wouldn't give this up for all the Titles in the world.

#

THE END.


End file.
